The husband is Japanese, the mother white, their son unearthly beautiful. He's a cellist; in the warm months, he rehearses with the parlor windows thrown open, ... This past summer, his music wandered toward the house, approached my living room, knocked politely on the glass: Let me in. I didn't, couldn't — I never open the windows, never — but still I could hear it murmuring, pleading: Let me in. Let me in!